Andrew's Diner
by Kail Ceannai
Summary: The subway station across from Andrew's diner provides him with customers. Andrew provides me with pancakes in the mornings. Serena-centric. AU.
1. Andrew's Diner

Author: Kail Ceannai kailceannai AT hotmail DOT com 

Disclaimer:  
Why do we always include these things? I recognize that all things pertaining to Sailor Moon are not mine. I further recognize that "Tom's Diner" (1) and future lyric inspirations are not mine. This is called "fanfiction" which means that "hey, somebody else's stuff really inspired me to streth a few artistic muscles and to pay homage to said stuff's greatness." Yes, I know I changed the tense of the songs slightly.

Summary:  
The subway station across from Andrew's diner provides him with customers. Andrew provides me with pancakes in the mornings. Serena-centric. AU.

Author's note: It's a little nerve-wracking to send your brain child into the world. I do want to learn how to improve my writing through this exercise, but please be courteous in your reviews.

* * *

September the 29th:

The subway station across from Andrew's diner provides him with customers. Andrew provides me with pancakes in the mornings and in every other time of day. Andrew formerly worked at my favorite teenage arcade. Perhaps it is fate that he has always been a familiar face in my daily life. That is, if I believed in fate.

The day that the diner opened, I hadn't even known he was interested in diners. I'd just flopped yet another interview. "Well, we have many other qualified candidates," the interviewer had informed me, "we will get back to you in a few days." I'd heard lines like that before. My wounded pride and empty stomach had been drawn in by an enticing smell. Food fixes everything. I remember the food Lita created - there was nothing to soothe a difficult cold like her soup.

A bell jingled as I had opened the diner's door. "Serena!" I jumped back slightly and looked up. I must have been gazing down past my shoes for some time. My heart had unpleasantly fluttered. "Come in! Did you get my email? I tried to call you, but no one seems to know your number. In fact, no one seemed to know where you've been," he had frowned. I did not respond to his bait. Rather than pressing the matter, Andrew had sat me down and served me his home-style pancakes and rich, bittersweet coffee.

Since then I have been coming once, if not twice, a week. I feel special being a regular. Even now, I sit in my favorite booth near the back where I can watch the coming and going customers. The sunlight glimers through the rain soaked, tinted windows. The customers' chatter and their rustling newspapers compete with the TV new station.

"How are you, Sere'?" Andrew questions me as he places a plate of pancakes and sausage down. The steam warms my nose. Andrew begins to pour my coffee. I look down to watch as the dark liquid swishes and sloshes and suddenly stops halfway.

I watch as Rita enters. Happily, he greets her, "It is always nice to see you." She shakes her umbrella. Andrew and Rita have been going out since a few months after you and I first met. Why did it work for them, but not us? I look other way as they kiss their hellos. I pretend not to see them. I fill the rest of the mug with milk. I'd much rather be forgotten than request the remainder of my coffee.

I open up the newspaper. Its acidic pages rubbing the dark ink onto my fingers. There is a story of some singer who died while he was drinking. I hadn't heard of him before. I turn to the horoscope predicting my "impending fortune". Whatever.

I begin to look for the funnies. Why can't they ever stay on a consistent page? Better yet, why can't they be on the front page? I feel someone watching me. Mina is outside the diner looking inside. I become tense. Does she see me? No, she doesn't really see me. She only sees her reflection. I try not to notice as she's hitching up her skirt. Really, Mina, isn't it short enough already? While she's straightening her stockings her hair is getting wet.

"This rain will continue through the morning," the weather-caster announces. I pause to listen to the distant chimes of the cathedral tolling the time. You'd told me I was beautiful when rain drenched. Despite the weather, our midnight picnic had been romantic. . .

No. I am not going to go there. Why is your absence still haunting me?

I finish milk-coffee while poking my sausage with a fork. It's time to catch the train.


	2. Scrubbing Tables

Disclaimer: Why do we always include these things? I recognize that all things pertaining to Sailor Moon are not mine. I further recognize that "Tom's Diner" (1) and future lyric inspirations are not mine. This is called "fanfiction" which means that "hey, somebody else's stuff really inspired me to stretch a few artistic muscles and to pay homage to said stuff's greatness." Yes, I know I changed the tense of the song(s) slightly.

Summary:

The subway station across from Andrew's diner provides him with customers. Andrew provides me with pancakes in the mornings. Serena-centric. AU.

Author's note: It's a little nerve-wracking to send your brain child into the world. I do want to learn how to improve my writing through this exercise, but please be courteous in your reviews.

-----------------------------------------------------

October the 17th:

Another day, another pancake, another horoscope. I must be insane even bothering to read the things; the habit grew after reading the classifieds every day. How many employers wanted to hire a college drop-out anyway? After you left I just couldn't pursue the education you wanted for me. School's never been my thing anyway. After weeks of searching, Andrew suggested I do him the favor of applying at the diner. I laughed. Perhaps my adolescent klutz attacks have worn off, but my cooking certainly hasn't improved! He explained one of his servers was leaving and he could use the help, even as a temporary job. I agreed to the position.

I smooth my rough, canvas apron and secure a pencil behind my ear. I gaze at myself in the window. The string of pearls I am wearing is pale pink, perfectly formed, and silky-smooth at the touch. Reaching from behind, you wrap your arms around me. "Beautiful," you whisper. I turn to look towards you, but you aren't there. "Oh Darien," I whisper. I still talk to you, did you know that? I look forward to seeing you in the afternoon: to tell you the ups and downs of my day, to listen to your voice, to feel your presence. Each time the diner door chimes I look up, hoping, waiting, unsure whether to flee or to jump for joy. It is never you though. Now I narrate my life to you though you aren't here. Perhaps I'm only lonely now.

Funny, that life isn't the same without you. I hated you at first. How many years is it now? Seven years ago? I remember that day we met. I had failed another test and it was my worst score yet. Mom was going to be furious that I had answered only 30 percent correct. In frustration, I had crumpled that awful Algebra test and thrown it at your head. I had hit you unintentionally, of course. In return you had scolded and insulted me. Over time, however, our rivalry had turned into friendship and then our friendship into love.

I dreamed of our future lives together. We would have a large family, of course. Shortly after marriage we would have a daughter with my hair and your eyes. She would be the perfect little lady who adored soft animals and dreamed of become a doctor like her father. Four other children would follow in quick succession. When you would come home in the evenings the children would scramble for their special hug from "Daddy." After gently making room for me among the children you'd dip down and give me a welcoming kiss.

Part of me yearns for you. I often feel that I cannot enjoy life without you. In my dream world I was your princess and you were my prince. I had thought that fate surely brought us together. How else could two people so different and so separated by age be so much in love?

The other part of me is disgusted. I am an individual. A single man should not have such an influence on me. I can stand strong - alone. I do not need to be tied down by my old teenage dreams.

Pouring out my heart over ice-cream with the girls might help. That's not an option. If the circumstances were different, then Mina would be thumbing through her collection of cell phone numbers to find "a good rebound date or better yet, your new true love!" Ami would diagnose me in very large words. Words I'd have to look up later. "Order's up!" Andrew interrupts my musings.

The glum, rainy afternoon has chased several schoolchildren to the diner to chatter over milkshakes. I pick up the plastic order tray: a single hamburger with cheese, a side of slaw, and a tall strawberry soda. If I hadn't taken the order myself I would still know who this was for. Sandra, a particularly shy brunette, likes to sit in my favorite booth and order her usual. I first noticed her for her unusual choice; what kind of kid likes coleslaw over french-fries? The memory was solidified when she left a tip. Kids only think of how many treats and arcade games they can squeeze from their pocket money and it never occurs to them that they ought to tip the waitress. I deliver the food. I exchange a small smile with Sandra.

-----------------------------------------------------

October the 28th:

The air is crisp in my lungs as I pull open the diner door. Oh dear, it is smudged with fingerprints. I must have forgotten to clean it last night. "Good morning, Sere'!" Andrew greets me. There isn't anyone else in the diner. I hand him the morning paper as I rummage in the cleaning cabinet for the window cleaner. Now that I look a closer some of the windows are a bit streaked. Andrew and I have developed the routine that while I touch up cleaning and prep the morning food he reads the paper to me. I start to mix the morning pancake batter as he reads the sports section for his own amusement. I have become quite the aficionado on sports scores and team members as a result of the ritual. I fold napkins around utensil sets while he reads the political pages.

The door chimes ring and I look up. The morning businessmen and hospital interns are beginning to fill the diner. The comics and horoscopes will wait for an afternoon break. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of a hospital resident in teal scrubs and a stethoscope. I am afraid to move. I am afraid to look closer. Laughing, he sits down with several coworkers. I sigh. I have only fooled myself into thinking he is you. This obsession with you, Darien, really must end. My heart can't take too much more of this.

I bustle about the diner bussing tables and taking orders. I force myself to smile. The morning crowd always responds best to a smile. What was on today's business page again? Ah yes, HCI's stock dropped significantly yesterday and Peachtree has announced a new furniture factory creating one thousand new local jobs. The business crowd always also responds best to a server versed in the latest business topics. I am grateful that Andrew is willing to read me the paper each morning. I just can't process all those big words in such small print.

Your hair-look-alike leaves the diner. I sigh. My friends had their advice concerning you leaving me. Rei said I was too pushy, too needy, too childish. Mina proclaimed, "You were not artful enough in the feminine arts." Ami maintains that Darien, being a medical student, may not have found my conversations intellectually stimulating. Lita wondered if my klutziness and inability to care for a home was my inevitable downfall.

"Excuse me, Miss?" a young businessman in a gray suit summons me. "More coffee, please?" It's amazing how many cups of coffee some of these men and woman drink. I do try to keep their cup filled without their asking, but this man is a different story. When he looks at me it isn't like others his age. Teenage boys and young men tend to look at me as if they're trying to measure the length of my legs or guess my weight. This man, however, looks at me as if he is trying to read my mind. Perhaps he is a psychologist. Regardless of his profession, I try to avoid eye contact with him.

I finish pouring the coffee leaving enough space for the creamer he always adds. I return to pot to the coffeemaker and resume my musings. Aren't friends supposed to be on my side anyway? Aren't they suppose to reassure me that he's an idiot to let me go; to sooth by doubts and tell me that I am a beautiful, intelligent woman; to remind me that there are bigger, better fish in the sea? After that particular get-together I can't say that I ever called or emailed them again nor did they try to contact me. As it turns out, I must have always been forcing my presence onto them.

I take my frustration out on a table I am scrubbing. A little elbow grease shouldn't hurt the table much. Had I been any of those things? True, perhaps cooing over baby clothes in windows and sighing over pink diamonds wasn't the best approach to hinting towards further commitment. We'd been going out for five years! It was time for further commitment! Perhaps clinging to his arm would have been better served by the occasional act of seduction. Perhaps I should have traded my manga for Shakespeare and cookbooks. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Well, I spend far too many hours thinking about you. For emphasis I throw my wash cloth in the bucket. I am tired of thinking about what we should have had, and about what went wrong. I'm still not sure what went wrong. Well that is it. I, Serena, put my foot down here and now. Good bye, Darien, it is time I moved on.


End file.
